The Deep End of the Sea (3 page)

He and I are friends, dear friends.

I worry about him. He’s so frail nowadays, his skin like tissue paper, and each time I see him, there are fresh bruises. He tells me he doesn’t heal like he used to. I ask if he ought to be making these trips at sea to visit me, yet he always maintains he’s fine. Says he likes my company, that I laugh at his jokes and don’t consider him an addled old fool like so many of the girls back home. I contend I do believe that, and then he and I laugh together, but I secretly worry. There will come a day when Mikkos will not come to my island anymore, and I will not know if it’s because he can’t or if he’s died. And if he dies, there is no way for me to go to his funeral and pay respects to one of the kindest souls I’ve ever been blessed to know.

I love that old fool.

I broached the subject with him during his last visit. We were sitting on a mosaic-laden patio overlooking my garden; even though he can’t see the view, Mikkos always insists we enjoy our wine al fresco. “Is your son still in Thessaloniki?” I’d asked, pouring him only a little more Cabernet Sauvignon. It’s his favorite, and he’d been the one to bring it to me, but he also needs to be able to steer his boat home—and being blind, his senses must stay sharp, not muddied. Interestingly enough, Poseidon never rages when Mikkos travels to Gorgóna, not like he does when other travellers seek out my isle, often fighting punishing storms and waves just to find me. The waters stay calm for Mikkos’ journeys to and fro, almost like the god knows I need my friend.

While appreciated, this confusing act of kindness does not endear me to the Lord of the Seas.

Mikkos laughed at my question about his son, like I’d said something of great amusement. “He will never come home. He’s met a girl, you know.”

Mikkos’ son was always meeting girls, and that was a problem. He was thrice divorced, with seven children. Seven grandchildren that Mikkos hardly knew. It was a horrible shame, one that left me simmering in sympathetic, righteous fury far too often; but then, my feelings on such matters were hardly relevant. Nobody involved would ever ask for my opinion, no one except for Mikkos. What did I know about having a family, after mine had died so very long ago?

“You should call him, ask him to come for a visit,” I urged gently.

His eyes, cloudy yet still beautiful, dulled for the smallest of moments, and I wished I had legs to kick myself. But then he found my hand and laid his brittle one over it. “You are a good girl,
matakia mou
. The world would be a better place if there were more people like you in it.”

I’d forced back the maelstrom of emotions threatening to overtake me and answered with a light voice. “If there were more people like me around, the world would have a tiny population. Be glad there’s just me, and that I’m confined to this island.”

His dear face scrunched in irritation. “You do not give yourself enough credit. Were you the monster they say you are, I would not be sitting here with you, drinking wine and reflecting upon my failures as a father. Instead, I would be at the entrance to the grotto, with all of the other laymen.”

“They are not laymen,” I protested, and he hushed me, like he tended to do.

“Fishermen, then. You could have easily killed me,
matakia mou
. But you didn’t.”

He calls me his eyes, which is so lovely of him, and yet bittersweet at the same time. Because his eyes are gone and mine are still here, and I wish, oh-wish so much, that I could say the situation were reversed.

The Girls love Mikkos. He is the only other person allowed to touch them, especially since he brings them little treats every time he visits. Legend claims my snakes are just as deadly as my eyes, but the actual truth of the matter is: I don’t know if they are.

It’s weird, right? That we’ve been together for over two thousand years, and I’ve murdered far too many people, and I can’t say, one way or another, that the dozen snakes on my head are equally responsible?

They are gentle creatures, individually named by me but normally referred to as a whole, since they intertwine together more often than not. More importantly, they abhor death just as avidly as I do. I know this not because they tell me in words, but because they get depressed. A strong sense of malaise infects them, rendering them listless owners of poor appetites. So we do not risk anything, not when it comes to anyone except Mikkos. And even then, it took a good decade before they let him touch them.

But it isn’t only Mikkos they like. There is one more person who the snakes adore, only it’s always done under the cover of a thick wrap. And that’s Hermes. Yes, the god Hermes, Athena’s brother and Poseidon’s nephew. And while I do not think too favorably of the gods and goddesses in general now, I will admit I am also quite fond of the messenger god.

Okay, more than fond. He is, to be precise, my best friend.

Hermes began visiting me shortly after I became a monster. In addition to being a messenger for the mighty Zeus, he also ferries the souls of the dead for his uncle Hades. I, being a newly minted murderess, had souls for Hermes to ferry. I loathed and feared him at first, convinced he would abuse me like his relatives had, but he is a persistent thing. It took years—literally, hundreds of years—but he chipped away at my shell with acts of kindness small and large.

Once, early on in our relationship, I awoke to sounds just outside my inner sanctum. As this was before actual locks were installed, when a heavy urn served as a doorstop, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. I lowered my voice to what I hoped sounded monstrous and shouted, “Depart forever if you know what’s good for you!” But a knock sounded in the darkness as a response, rattling me and the Girls. I attempted one more warning, “You must wish for death. Leave this island and never return!”

And yet, it wasn’t a wayward stranger who answered. It was a god. “I’ve brought you something.”

Hermes had brought me something
.

I didn’t know what to do. So far, he’d been kind in his brief visits, but the gods are, at best, temperamental, so one never knows which direction the wind will blow in their favor. I left the door firmly shut, and after what seemed like an hour, and the silence around me punctured only by Poseidon’s angry waves against the shores of my tiny isle, I arose to ensure his departure. The moment my hand touched the door, he called out, “I’m leaving now. If you need more, let me know. Sweet dreams, Dusa.” A rush of wings followed, signaling his true departure.

He’d called me Dusa, a name my youngest sister bestowed upon me back when her hand had to hold one of my fingers, it was so small. I’d not heard the name for years, and here it was, coming from a god.

I ended up crying. The Girls were soft and loving, peppering my face with tiny licks that served as kisses, but I wept long and hard for so very many things. I cried for my sister, who I surely would never see again. For the life robbed from me, and for the situation I was trapped within. And I cried for the sweetness of a name I’d never thought I’d hear again.

When I finally got up and dusted myself off, I decided to open the door. For all I knew, I could be stepping into another of the gods’ traps. And yet there was no trick awaiting me, just a pile of thick, beautiful blankets. Until that moment, I didn’t have such luxuries, and I, being partially reptilian, chilled easily. Winter was miserable—drafts flowing off the Aegean made sleep bitterly elusive and days stretched out in front of me forever. Warming myself out in the sun helped somewhat, but at night, all bets were off. I was wretched.

But that pile of blankets ... it was a turning point for me.

Over the next hundred years, more gifts came, alongside improvements for my temple. During festival times, when I would drown in melancholy over what once was, he would bring me sweet treats, wine when I wanted to indulge in my sorrows. When my family passed from this land to the next, he let me know in the gentlest ways. Books appeared when he somehow knew I was bored to tears, and then lessons to learn how to read languages other than Greek. He was the one to bring me a lock for my door, and furniture for me to sit and lay on.

Even still, I forced him to keep his distance—I could kill the gods, after all, and was leery of his intentions toward me—but slowly, oh so slowly, he and I began to talk. I resented it at first, compared him to his louse of an uncle who charmed me with words before violating me, but Hermes persevered when others surely would have given up. On the days I refused to open up about myself, he told me of the outside world. I heard of places I never even knew of, learned the world was round and that there were peoples across vast expanses of water. He told me of scientific discoveries, of stories both true and imaginary. He allowed me to ask him—
a god
—any questions I wished, and in return he answered me honestly and thoroughly.

It took a good couple of centuries before I allowed him within ten feet of me, and only after we devised a plan to keep him safe. In those early days, I relied exclusively on scarves (which he brought or had sent to me) to wrap around my eyes and my snakes. It was terrifying, going blind in the presence of a god who had the ability to transform or maim me at his whim, but Hermes treated me kindly. Respectfully.

After a thousand years, I had to admit that Hermes was someone I could trust. Today, I cannot imagine my life without him. And there is a comfort in that, unlike the fear I harbor over Mikkos’ fragile existence.

“Dusa?” calls a voice, and I scramble to find my glasses.

“Hold on a minute!” I slap on a pair of deep black, mirrored wrap-around shades and then quickly bind the Girls up in their scarf. They hiss in protest, but it’s only half-hearted, as they would never risk hurting Hermes.

I whip my head back and forth to ensure no parts of my eyes are visible. Then I do a double, triple check of pat downs before heading into the cella and calling out for him to come in.

My favorite god strolls into this main room of the temple, a warm smile gracing his divinely gorgeous face. “Greetings! And how are you on this wonderful day?”

I wait until he’s a few steps away before putting a hand out. Fool would hug me if I let him. Has he no sense of self-preservation? Even though he must already know it, I tell him, “I killed somebody yesterday.”

His well-loved Vans sneakers squeak against the worn tiles as he comes to a halt, my outstretched hand half an inch away from his chest. I drop it as he says, “It’s not your fault.”

“Really? I think Walt would disagree.”

I know it sounds foolish and typical, especially since he’s a god and all, but when Hermes smiles, it’s really breathtaking. My breath catches as he says, “Ah. A poet, then?”

He knows me too well. “I’d been reading Whitman this last week. It seems fitting.”

He attempts to move closer, so I shift backwards and motion him towards his chair. Hermes is here enough that I’ve designated a chair to be his exclusively; Mikkos has one, too. But then, it’s not like I have a ton of visitors who clamor for my company, so giving my closest friends their own seats in my home wasn’t a huge burden. Plus, as Hermes was responsible for bringing me the furniture in the first place, I figure he has every right to find comfort here. “He knew the risks,” Hermes tells me. “Plus, if you want to blame anybody for that man’s death, go ahead and blame my sister.”

It’s a common saying from Hermes, and one I secretly cling to in the dark of night, when my life and deeds press heavily against my heart. Isn’t it always easier to blame somebody else for our actions? But no, that’s not fair, because it was my responsibility to be more careful.

“Or,” Hermes says, his dazzling smile now bittersweet and wry, “my bastard of an uncle.”

I push my glasses closer to my face. Paranoia over losing him due to any carelessness on my behalf is a constant companion during his visits. “I don’t want to talk about that.” And I don’t. I may tell Hermes nearly everything, but this is not a subject I wade into voluntarily.

“Dusa, it’s been two thousand years—”

Nice way to butter me up, reminding me how old I am and all. “Your point?”